


Compromising

by OniGil



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Referenced Orgies, now there's a tag you don't see every day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3298979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Wing asks Drift to tie him to the bed, Drift figures it's probably some sort of Circle ritual thing. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vienn_peridot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/gifts), [Prime (Icelandsbutt)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Prime+%28Icelandsbutt%29).



> So I started this six months ago, much to my surprise when I opened the file this morning and found an 85% complete fic. It's like Christmas in February: a pleasant surprise for everyone!

            “You… you want me to do _what?_ ”

            Drift hasn’t been in Crystal City all that long, so maybe he doesn’t have the full range to compare, but Wing’s acting a little… differently. It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s preoccupied. And when Wing had come up to him and said “I have a strange request,” this definitely hadn’t been what Drift was expecting. Wing fiddles with the length of rope in his hands, wrapping loops around his wrist, sliding them off, turning the coil over.

            “Just to clarify,” Drift says, since Wing hasn’t answered yet, “you want me to tie you to your berth.”

            “Yes.”

            “Why?”

            Wing’s pinions flick, like a shrug. “You could say it’s a kind of penance.”

            Drift eyes him suspiciously. Wing’s told him before that his vows forbid him to lie, but Wing can get pretty creative with the truth he tells.

            “For what?” He guesses before Wing can speak. “For bringing me to the city.”

            “For bringing you to the city,” Wing says, a little sheepish. “I still say it was worth it. But…” He shifted his weight, one foot to the other, his skirting panels sliding and clinking delicately over each other. Drift only lets that keep his attention for an instant before snapping his focus right back to Wing’s face. That’s out of bounds. What would an elegant jet like Wing want with a Decepticon who crawled out of the Dead End, anyway? “But I still need to do this.”

            Drift holds out his hand to take the rope. “How long?”

            That little shrug-motion again. “Two to five days, maybe.”

            “That’s not very specific.”

            “However long it takes,” Wing says.

            “Are you going to refuel at all? And if you’re tied up for two to five days, what’s to stop me leaving?”

            “Oh, Axe will be around,” Wing says. His tone may be innocent but his smile has a sly little twist to it. Yes, Drift remembers that guy. He could give _Turmoil_ a run for his money. “He’ll keep you entertained, and he’ll give me fuel if I need it.”

            He holds his arms out invitingly. “I can walk you through it.”

            “I know how to tie a knot,” Drift grumbles. He does better than that, though: wraps the rope several times around each wrist, between two plates, and secures it in the middle. “You’re running a little hot.”

            “Airframe. It’s normal.” Wing tests the bonds, flexing his hands this way and that.

            “Told you I could do it,” Drift says.

            “It’s enough. Thank you.” And Wing settles down on his berth, stretches out on his back and lifts his arms up over his head to where there’s a loop attached to the wall. That… that, Drift hadn’t been expecting.

            “You, um.” He reset his vocalizer, threading the rope through the loop. “You do this sort of thing often?”

            “Often enough,” Wing says, with that same mischievous twist on his smile. “I’ve served many such… penances.”

            He wriggles, settling himself more comfortably. Drift ties off the rope and backs away, shoving aside the tingle in his interfacing equipment. Wing _has_ to know what he looks like right now. Is this a test or something?

            “Good enough?” he asks brusquely.

            “Thank you, Drift.”

            “This Circle stuff is weird,” Drift mutters, putting Wing behind him with a tight military turn and heading for the door before that tingle grows into a problem. He pauses just once, right at the threshold, but resists the urge to look back. “You sure you’ll be okay? That’s going to hurt, after a while.”

            “I’ll be fine, Drift.” Wing’s voice sounds a little strange, sort of tight, but Drift still doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t have to: that’s an image that’ll stick in his processor for a while. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

            Wing’s right about Axe coming over. He shows up right when Drift’s in the middle of concocting a half-hearted escape plan and getting a little distracted by the memory of white and red plating all spread out like a feast.

            “Wing in there?” he asks, glancing at the door of Wing’s room, and Drift nods. “Let’s give him some space. Come on, lad, we have work to do!”

            People talk about not knowing what you have until it’s gone, and by the time Axe calls a halt, Drift believes it. Never thought he’d say this, but he really really _really_ misses Wing.

            “I swear I’ll never complain about Wing throwing me again,” he mutters, poking at a dent in his shoulder. “Don’t get half as many dents.”

            With Axe it’s all _again! Come on, lad, our sparklings know better!_ and with Wing it’s all _That’s good, Drift. But try it this way next time._ Drift had grumbled that he’d had drill sergeants ten times scarier in the Decepticons, but now? Now he misses Wing smiling at him while he corrects his form.

           Axe’s hand claps him in the middle of his back. Probably another dent. “That’s because Wing’s soft with you, lad.”

            Drift sputters. “Telling me he goes _easy_ on me?”

            “Relatively. He likes you.”

            “Don’t see why,” Drift snorts. “Brought him nothing but trouble.”

            “He’s put a lot of faith in you,” Axe said, his hand squeezing a little too hard on Drift’s shoulder. “For your sake I hope you don’t try to hurt him. One, he’d kick your aft. Two, _I’d_ kick your aft. I taught Wing everything he knows, lad, but not everything _I_ know.”

            Axe escorts him all the way back to Wing’s place, grabs some flight-grade energon, and disappears into Wing’s room for a few minutes while Drift heads for the washracks to clean up. Fueling time. He still thinks it’s stupid. Penance? Some sort of crazy knight thing. Well, fine. Let him stay in there.

            He’s finishing up when Axe taps on the door.

            “Heading out, lad. Don’t worry, I’ll be back bright and early to pound some more dings into you. Wouldn’t want you to neglect your training while Wing’s… unavailable.”

            Drift grumbles in response, and when he goes out of the washracks, the bigger mech is gone. He downs his own energon, pokes around the shelf of datapads, but he doesn’t feel like reading. He’s restless, but not sure why. He keeps thinking about Wing.

            _Stop that,_ he scolds himself.

            _He likes you_ , Axe’s voice plays on repeat in his head. Yeah, well. Wing likes everyone. It would take a fragging miracle to find someone Wing _doesn’t_ like. Besides the slavers, obviously.

            Nothing for it but to try for some recharge if he’s going to have Axe tossing him all over the ring again tomorrow. No matter that his systems are all humming.

            He hesitates on the way to the little room that Wing had cleared out for him, stops in front of Wing’s door. Awake? Recharging? Meditating, probably, on how badly his processor has to be cracked for dragging a Decepticon back to his hidden city. He catches his hand reaching out towards the door controls. He just wants a look. Not every day he gets to ogle a pretty jet all stretched out on a berth.

            A noise from inside makes him twitch backwards, afraid to get caught. Then he edges forward, tuning his audios. That’s… Wing’s voice. Wing is… sobbing?

            _What?_

            It sounds like he’s hurt. Probably the strain of the binding is getting to him. But… a high keen makes Drift’s Spark twinge, and something a little further down, too. Those noises—they’re not _just_ pain. There’s something else there.

            Fraggit. He’s just going to check. Make sure Wing’s not injured. That’s all.

            He codes the door open and pokes his head in, ready to jump back if he’s not supposed to be in here. But all his inner voices go utterly silent. Wing’s right where Drift left him, straining against the ropes, arching up so hard that his wings aren’t touching the berth, his legs spread apart and his panel open.

            Drift shuts off his optics. Counts to three hundred. Turns them on again. Yep. Wing’s still there, still squirming enticingly, with a pressurized spike and a dripping valve. The room is ridiculously warm from all the heat Wing’s frame is putting out.

            _“Airframe,” he said. “It’s normal,” he said._

            Sure. Because _this_ is definitely normal.

            And the… the _sounds_. Whimpers. Sobs. Mewls. Broken fragments of words, scrambled into incoherence. But there’s one, at least, that keeps coming up, in a whisper or a moan and sometimes rising up to a cry: “Please. _Please_. Please.”

            “Wing?” Drift hazards. Wing’s entire frame jolts, twisting in his bonds, turning towards the sound. His optics are dim, and Drift’s not sure Wing’s seeing him at all.

            “Please, need it, I need, please—!”

            That little tingling in Drift’s equipment earlier? That’s a raging inferno now. It’s heroic willpower that keeps his panel shut while his spike’s making its needs _very_ clearly known.

            Instead he stumbles to find words. “Are you… is this normal? Can you hear me? What can I do?”

            Wing’s only answer is a wordless moan as his body flops back onto the berth. His hips squirm, making those skirting panels slide so enticingly. This time it takes much longer for Drift to stop looking. In fact that whole area is just… extremely appealing right now. Not to mention the curve of Wing’s torso, the strain in his arms, the need in his face… altogether the sight kicks Drift’s fans up three notches.

            This must be normal. Axe was just here. If things were going wrong he would have… done something. Right? So this is what’s supposed to happen. Some sort of knight trance thing. Penance. What kind of messed up punishment is _this_?

            And if it’s a knight thing, it’s probably not something Drift is supposed to interfere in. Oh, he knows what Deadlock would do. Presented with a pretty jet like Wing, bound and helpless and oh so needy? He would be on that berth already, no second thoughts. But this… this is _Wing_. Wing, who trusts him.

            He steps back and shuts the door, stares at the plain silvery metal for a long moment.

            “Frag,” he swears in a hiss. He tears himself away from the door and bursts into his own room, his memory full of shifting white plates, the lubricants already staining Wing’s thighs, the _sight_ of him opened wide like that—! He leans against the wall that divides their rooms, snapping open his panel. His spike springs instantly into his hand. He curls down around it, stroking fast, shuttering his optics. And frag, he can hear Wing, this close to the wall, he can still hear him begging for release. How would he _feel_ around Drift’s spike? He knows that body well by now, from sparring and training, but what would it be like spread out under him in the berth?

            He bites back a moan of his own, leaning back against the wall so he can listen to Wing. Trapped, bound, aching for it, without any means of release. And Drift wants to give it to him, more than anything.

            _Go on, Deadlock_ , a mocking voice says in his head. _Take him. The strong dominate the weak. That’s what you believe, right? What’s stopping you?_

            Drift bites back a groan. He wants Wing. Wants him more than he’s ever wanted anyone. But not like this. Not with Wing in this state, when Drift could be anyone for all he knows. He needs Wing to want _him_.

            And the thought of Wing saying his name in that voice, tucked in between those desperate moans, makes him arch up in his own overload.

 

* * *

 

            He tries to recharge. _Tries_. But it’s hard to recharge knowing that right next door Wing is burning for touch. So he tosses and turns, and when he does get scattered bursts of recharge, his processor won’t shut down properly and his head is full of sliding skirting panels and Wing’s little gasps.

            So it’s a wobbly Drift who tops off his fuel tank and jumps under cold solvent in the washracks to clear his head. Axe is going to kick him all around the ring today if his mind isn’t on what he’s doing. Of course, Axe is probably going to kick him all around the ring _anyway_. But he doesn’t want to explain why he can’t concentrate.

            He hesitates at Wing’s door. Maybe he should check on him? Make sure he’s all right? Drift stops his hand halfway to the controls. Bad! Bad Drift! Better leave him be.

            But…

            Just going to take a peek. Just to make sure he’s not hurt at all. Wouldn’t want him to try something desperate and get tangled in the ropes, right? No matter how enticing _that_ image is. Wing keeps so much rope around…

            He opens the door and darts inside before he can change his mind. Wing seems settled at first, but his head turns towards the sound. Looking, but Drift’s not convinced he’s seeing. And the chorus starts up again.

            “Please,” Wing begs, rolling half onto his side. He shifts his hips, trying to get attention where he wants it.

            “Easy,” Drift says. “Easy, Wing. How can I help you? Anything I’m allowed to do?”

            Wing moans again and then… “Drift.”

            “What?” Drift scrambles forward as though pushed. “What did you say?”

            “Drift,” Wing chokes out, his optics shuttering tight as he rolls onto his back again. “Drift…!”

            Drift waits, frozen. Does Wing actually know he’s there? Or is he… is he imagining him there? With the way he rocks his hips, is he picturing…

            Drift shakes the thought off. No. Wings’ got options. He’s got all these other knights to choose from. Pretty thing like him? He’s got to have a network. Some long-standing partners. He doesn’t want Drift.

            Except it’s Drift’s name he’s moaning. No one else.

            “I’m right here,” Drift says, and after a moment he dares to touch Wing’s helm, the lightest brush of his fingers against the red crest. Wing nuzzles up towards him. “What do you need?”

            “Please, please, please,” Wing moans, pressing his head harder against Drift’s hand, squirming and vibrating. Drift hesitates. Maybe… maybe he can just give Wing a hand? At least help him overload? That’s not too weird. The Decepticons do that sort of thing all the time. Nothing to be embarrassed by, even when Wing comes back to his senses from whatever… weird knight trance thing this is. If that’s what this is.

            So he wraps a firm hand around Wing’s spike, and the little jet jerks up, a cry ripping out of his vocalizer. He sobs, bucking into Drift’s hand, while Drift, in a moment of weakness, takes the opportunity to run his fingers up and down Wing’s audial flares, catching the tips between his fingers for a tweak that makes Wing whine and shudder. When will he ever get the chance again? Not like Wing would do anything with him in a normal state. If he were interested he would have done something already. Made a move.

            _He was calling your name_ , a little voice in Drift’s processor reminds him.

            Wing twitches upward like a puppet on a string, keening, as charge crackles across his wiring and transfluid splashes over his abdominal plating. Drift pulls his hand way guiltily as Wing’s optics flicker and focus just for a moment. He doesn’t seem to have found much relief despite the overload. If anything, his moan has a note of pain in it.

            “Drift,” he pants, whether he can actually see him or is still lost in his own processor. “Please _please_ … I need… I… _need_ …”

            His legs slide further apart as his hips rock in the air. That’s an obvious bit of body language if ever Drift saw one.

            “Need,” Wing gasps again, his plating quivering, “need… _inside…_ please…!”

            “Going to the Pit for this,” Drift mutters. But hey. He already knew that. Might as well enjoy it while he could, and with Wing _asking_ for it, begging really…

            “Yes,” Wing hisses when he feels Drift settling between his legs. “Yes, _yes_ , Drift, please…!”

            Drift pops his spike cover, instantly pressurized from the jet’s display. He wants to savor the moment—hey, as long as it’s happening—but the moment the tip of his spike noses into Wing’s valve, Wing gives a shuddering cry and wraps his legs around Drift’s waist, his heels digging into the small of Drift’s back and forcing him in deep. _Primus_ but the little jet is stronger than he looks, and that’s about as far as that thought gets before the sensations hit. Drift hasn’t spiked a mech in a long time, and never one quite as eager and _dripping_ as Wing. The calipers cycle down tight, squeezing, demanding. Wing’s optics, feverishly bright, stare up at the ceiling, at some distant point only he can see, and he gives a blissful cry.

            That momentary peaceful expression lasts only until Drift starts to move, urged on by Wing’s half-coherent begging, words that break off halfway through, until he loses the capacity for speech entirely, his vocalizer emitting wordless cries and urgent moans, chirrs and whimpers and mewls. His optics blank out as he tosses his head back, baring his tight neck cabling, and Drift lunges forward and sinks his Decepticon fangs into it, to ground himself. His hands roam Wing’s torso, exploring as he has always wanted, finding the places that make Wing’s valve squeeze unexpectedly.

            Wing melts beautifully—he’s everything Drift had ever imagined and more, all that warrior’s grace and strength turned to trembling, pleading, under Drift’s hands. That smiling mouth hanging open instead, his teasing words exchanged for moans of pleasure and need. It’s intoxicating and it’s exactly what Drift needs to overload, his engine revving to a roar as he spills out inside Wing, and Wing wails, bucking, catching that charge and overloading too, his calipers working to milk every last drop they can from Drift’s spike.

            Wing is—finally—quiet, his optics flickering as he stares at the ceiling. Both his and Drift’s fans are running high. It should be awkward, but Drift is still coming down from a _fragging good_ overload, and for the moment he can’t process anything other than how he could gladly stay here just like this, forever.

            Instead of gently ebbing away to be replaced by the usual self-doubt and general dissatisfaction with his lot in life, the contentment comes to a spectacular crashing end when a voice calls out from the main room.

            “Drift? You here?”

            _Axe_ , Drift thinks wildly, and if a moment before he’d been warm, now he feels like he’s been drenched in liquid nitrogen. He scrambles away from Wing. Well, he _tries_. But Wing makes a distressed noise and wraps his legs tighter around Drift’s waist, clinging like a space barnacle. Drift swears and tries to dislodge him, but he’s gotten only as far as prying the strong legs off and pinning them to the berth when the door opens and he freezes guiltily.

            By all means Axe should look ridiculous stooped in a doorway built for mechs Wing’s size, but he doesn’t. He stops. He stares. And Drift belatedly pauses to consider the scene: the dangerous Decepticon intruder, kneeling between Wing’s thighs and pinning his legs; Wing, coming out of his post-overload content and starting to strain and struggle again.

            He wouldn’t be surprised if Axe started breathing fire.

            “It’s not what it looks like,” he stammers, but that’s probably not the most convincing argument with his spike out and the unmistakable evidence spattered across Wing’s cockpit and pooling on the berth under his hips.

            Axe’s hands twitch, like he’s either about to go for a weapon or just tear Drift’s head off, and the look on his face would send the Unmaker sprinting for cover.

            “And what,” he says, “does it look like?”

            Drift tries to say seven or eight things at once: “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t going to… he asked… he was hurting… my name…”

            It’s Wing that saves him. He bucks insistently, taking advantage of Drift’s shock to free his legs and wrap them around him again. Drift almost falls right onto his front with how violently Wing pulls him closer, rocking his hips up again, like he’s ready for round two just like that.

            “More,” he moans. “Drift, please. _Please_.”

            Instead of liquid nitrogen, Drift now feels like he’s been dunked into the heart of a sun. He’d give anything to evaporate right now instead of look at Axe, but he does, sheepish.

            The fire-breathing head-ripping expression dissolves suddenly into exasperation. Axe shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

            “Up to his old tricks, is he?”

            At the sound of his voice, Wing’s head turns towards him, optics taking on that misty probably-not-seeing quality again.

            “Axe,” he murmurs, his hips surging. Drift tries to squirm away, but thinks better of it, because his spike is getting interested again and Wing’s skirting panels are the only things hiding it from Axe’s view. “I want… _want_ …”

            “Next time, Wing.” Drift is impressed how admirably unaffected Axe looks. The bigger mech smiles at him. “Don’t worry, greater mechs than you have been, ah, persuaded by Wing when he’s in heat.”

            “Heat?” Drift repeats stupidly. There’s some sort of rumor, but he never put much stock in it.

            “Heat,” Axe confirms. “Every few centuries or so he wants to frag anything that moves. Usually we all, er, pitch in. But this time we had you to worry about.”

            Wing is getting desperate again, rocking insistently under him. “Drift… Drift, I need…!”

            Axe’s optics twinkle. “To be honest, Wing _did_ mention he’d been hoping a certain someone would make a move.”

            Drift looks down at Wing, dumbfounded. Wing… Wing actually… _does_ want him? Not just in heat, but… _him?_

            “It looks like everything’s covered here,” Axe says, backing towards the door. “Don’t worry about training. I’ll cover for you. By the way, he likes it when you pinch his wingtips. See you in three days.”

            “Three d—!”

            The door slides shut and Drift can hear Axe whistling merrily all the way to the door.


End file.
